“The British have been beaten,” said Tom, finishing the sentence for him. “There were only four of them; two troopers have been wounded, another and Colonel Tarleton are prisoners.”
“Tarleton!” The man upon the couch, in his excitement attempted to spring out upon the floor, but sank back with a groan. “I had forgotten; you see my leg is broken.”
Just then Nat Collins, the elder of the two brothers, entered; he seemed angry at Tom for having entered the cabin, and there was an anxious look about him, as he stood gazing from one to the other, not knowing just how to act.
“Light a candle, Nat,” said the man upon the couch. “And why,” he proceeded, “did you not tell me that friends had arrived.”
“They did not come until the fight had started,” said Nat, lighting a candle in a brass sconce from a dim fire that burned on the hearth. The flickering light fell upon Tom’s face as the young wood-cutter arose, and the man on the couch uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Tom Deering!” cried he.
Tom gave him one quick look and then springing forward, he seized his hand.
“Major Marion,” he burst out joyfully. “Who would ever have thought of seeing you here.”
“I wouldn’t, myself, some little time ago,” said the soldier. “How is it with you, my lad?”
Tom had been of great service to Major Marion in his expeditions against the Tories after the defeat of Sir Peter Parker’s fleet at Sullivan’s Island; the two had gradually come to admire and trust one another greatly.